grandparents
Becoming a grandparent makes getting older something to look forward to - all the fun of parenting, without the hassle.
In A Year
Here I am, trying to make sure everything is accurate. So much is riding on this. I have boxes of receipts and a folder with the past year’s bank statements. None of it was as important as the little black book in my purse. Everything must match this little book of sixty pages. One of my favorite movies is Rent and the opening song never meant so much until this year. I agreed to do this. I could have said no, but I didn’t and here we are. We’re sitting in this cozy little office with boxes, a folder and this little black book waiting to talk to my grandparent’s lawyer.
By F. D. Pruitt5 years ago in Families
The Magical Black Book
My grandmother, like me, was seen as an odd ball to the rest of my family, her aura whimsical and distinct, a hopeful artist living in a colourless world. She hypnotized anyone in her presence, her skin like silk, her afro resembling that of a lion's mane. She was a magical woman simply vibrating on a higher level.
By Linda renee5 years ago in Families
The Title
The Title Everybody used to joke about Grandma’s little black book. “You got some phone numbers in there, Ellie?” they would say after my grandfather passed, and even now and then when he was alive. Other popular choices were, “You working for some secret operation, Grandma?” and, “How long until you publish that sequel to War and Peace?” Sometimes Grandma would look up and smirk; sometimes she’d smirk without looking up; and sometimes her face remained fully devoted to whatever world was in that book. But she’d always reply, in a tone as bold and carefree as the frizzy silver curls that spiraled down to her shoulders, “If I tell you, will you shut up?” All us grandkids would giggle, and our parents and great-aunts and great-uncles would roll their eyes and chuckle softly, having partaken in this back-and-forth for at least a couple of decades.
By Rebecca Longabucco5 years ago in Families
Tea Notes
A soft song of steam decrescendoed as Ariel lifted the simmering kettle. Water bubbled over the pearled leaves, filling the mug with a swamp of gunpowder green. She rested the kettle on a cool, empty burner and glanced at her desk, where a pile of journals in dark burgundy and grey, marked with ribbons and notes, was stacked on the desk’s corner--a project in progress. The singular black leather one was older, marked with the permanent stains of use, weather, and persistent fingers. It was held together with a little stitching on the spine and a cord like a too-tight belt around its bulging belly.
By Cheryl Hong5 years ago in Families
'Skin in the Game
Addison was perched quietly in the small bedroom on the third floor of their house by a small window overlooking the side yard that was lush with trees this time of year. Everyone else was downstairs. "Look," he heard his mother say in a highly concerned tone through the otherwise silent air vent, "I don't want things. I want my dad."
By Richard Soulliere5 years ago in Families
Shadows In The Hall
Chapter 7 The Shadow of Death…. The loss of my mother. Shortly after we moved from the boy’s camp, my birth Mother became quite ill, with extreme shortness of breath. Her condition became so exacerbated that she was admitted to Palo Alto Hospital. She was diagnosed with Mitral Valve Failure for which she received a Pig Valve replacement.
By Linda Pavlos5 years ago in Families
An Awkward Weight
Misery. No other word encapsulated Celia’s agony. She scanned the skies but found no hope of relief from the scorching sun. Its hostile rays broiled her skin - including the naked scalp revealed between the braided rows of hair. Her usual mocha brown complexion now appeared burnished to a deep mahogany. Or maybe some of it was dirt - which covered her from head to foot. Gone were her girlish curves - her once 5’ 7”, 130 pounds now appeared thin, muscled, and most unladylike.
By Maria Ware-Patterson5 years ago in Families
Diary of a King
The day started like any other Thursday morning: alarm clock blaring, birds chirping, breeze at my window. I sit up in my bed, stretch like a grizzly awakening from a past winter’s slumber, and rest my feet on the cold tiles in my bedroom. As I make my way to the bathroom for that glorious morning pee, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
By Isaac Garden5 years ago in Families
There's Always Paris
My grandfather was an elusive character. He wore a blue beret that he bought one summer while on vacation in France. He loved that hat. Strange choice for a man who made a living as a steam fitter. Every once in a while, when I see those black and white photographs of men eating their lunches out of buckets, on steel beams 20 stories up, skyscrapers in the background, I wonder, what would those guys think about my Pop in that blue beret?
By Mary Gormley5 years ago in Families
Little Paper
I was nine years old when Grandpa decided it was time for me to propagate my very own fern. I chose a silver frond from the Ghost Lady that Grandpa had planted for Grandma behind the house. We tucked the frond with its neat rows of sporangia between two pieces of paper and when the spores fell, they created the shadow of a leaf against the white backdrop.
By Kara Ginther5 years ago in Families
